


make me feel like i'm set on fire

by aucoventry



Category: Girls of Paper and Fire Series - Natasha Ngan
Genre: Birthday, Book 1, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing Lessons, During Canon, F/F, First Time, Making Out, Missing Scene, Showers, canon-typical references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aucoventry/pseuds/aucoventry
Summary: “Do you think the acrobats in the circus were born knowing how to tumble?” Wren says on one of our afternoons together, rapping my wrist with her closed fan. But it’s a playful reprimand—I can tell by the glint in her dark eyes.“No, but not everyone can be an acrobat,” I counter, scowling at her and rubbing my wrist. “And maybe acrobats aren’t born knowing their art, but some people are born with the fear of heights.”Wren shakes her head in amusement. “You’re not afraid.” Then she adds, in a tone so certain it surprises me, “You don’t strike me as being afraid of anything.”--(or, four scenes from the Paper House.)
Relationships: Lei/Wren (Girls of Paper and Fire)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	make me feel like i'm set on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Livewire” by Oh Wonder. Final paragraph almost certainly inspired by “If My Last Dusk Were My Lover” by Shane Carreon plus “Stargazing” by Glyn Maxwell.
> 
> Belated happy Femslash February, folks! I know I wasn’t able to get this one in under the wire, but in my opinion every month should be Femslash Month and honestly I have a history of having very good opinions.

Wren’s birthday falls at the turn of the season—at the end of summer and the beginning of autumn, as the leaves on the gingko trees in the garden are beginning to change from green to yellow. I hadn’t thought we would have time for birthdays in the Paper House, given how our lives belong to the court— _to the King,_ I think, and swallow back bile _—_ but Mistress Eira surprises us by telling us that we will be having a birthday dinner for Wren tomorrow night.

The thought cheers me and gives me something to look forward to, even as I begin to fret. In between our lessons for the day, I rack my brains for something I can do for Wren, or something I can give her. We didn’t ever have much for presents, back home in Xienzo, but between the three of us, we always managed to scrounge up little things to make each of our celebrations special.

 _Why do you care so much?_ a small, taunting voice asks in the back of my mind, later that afternoon. _It’s not as though Wren is expecting anything from you. She doesn’t even_ like _you._

I shake my head to banish the voice, and look down at the sheet of paper in my lap. I’d been in the middle of composing another letter to Baba and Tien, but the sight of the paper suddenly gives me an idea.

 _Yes,_ I think, and take a fresh sheet, turning it over in my hand. _This will do._

The evening of Wren’s birthday is cool and clear, and we leave the sliding screen doors open to the breeze. The table is spread with a selection of Wren’s favorite foods—glistening slices of duck and fresh, crunchy bokchoy over bowls of steaming white rice; crispy pan-fried noodles in a thick mushroom sauce; baskets of vegetable dumplings and fluffy steamed sponge cake. I feel an odd jolt in the pit of my stomach when I realize that I know her favorites because of how often I’ve looked her way at mealtimes.

Wren herself arrives dressed for the occasion, though she looks somewhat embarrassed to have done so. Chiho must have insisted, and a secret part of me is glad that she did—Wren is wearing a cheongsam the color of the autumn gingko leaves, embroidered with gold thread, and her burnished skin seems to glow from within. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in gentle waves, and her eyelids and lips have been touched with glossy paint.

A lump forms in my throat, and I turn my face away, feeling my cheeks heat.

Mistress Eira speaks a blessing for Wren’s nineteenth year, which we all echo, and then we eat. The other girls begin to chatter with one another as they usually do—Blue and Mariko keeping to themselves and throwing furtive glances at me, which I choose to ignore.

My own gaze wanders back to the birthday celebrant, seated next to Mistress Eira. Wren thanked us politely for our greetings earlier, but now she is refusing to lift her eyes from her food, eating in small, deliberate bites. The line of her back remains proudly arched, as though she is trying to show that she doesn’t care if no one speaks to her.

I think that no one should look this way on their birthday. Getting up from my place, I edge around the room and crouch next to the corner of the table where Wren sits. As she looks at me, startled, I take a deep breath and set my gift next to her teacup.

“Happy birthday,” I get out in a rush. “I made this for you.”

Wren blinks at it. I’ve made her an origami cat, the way I learned to when I was a child. I haven’t done it in years, but somehow my hands still remembered every fold from start to finish. I thought of her as I was making it, her catlike grace—but of course, that part I cannot say aloud.

“If you press down on its tail, it jumps,” I explain. Wren looks somewhat puzzled, so I show her. “See?” I flick my finger down against the paper cat’s tail, and it skitters forward.

The beginnings of a smile touch the corners of Wren’s mouth. “I see,” she replies, with none of the dryness or sarcasm that I’m used to from her. Then she surprises me again by reaching out and trying it herself, and the corner of her mouth quirks upward still when the cat springs to bounce off her teacup. “Thank you,” she says. “This was…thoughtful.”

My heart flutters with hope, but Mistress Eira is looking at us, so I think it best not to linger. As is, the fact that I, out of all the other girls, gave Wren a gift feels as though I’ve painted my feelings onto a banner and paraded through the streets holding it aloft. I offer Wren one last smile and hurry back to my seat.

Dinner is over, and we all begin to depart to our rooms for the night. I am just stepping into the hallway when a hand quickly catches the edge of my sleeve. My breath stutters in my chest as I turn to face Wren again.

“I have one,” Wren blurts out suddenly.

I feel like my mind has gone foggy, with her so close. “One?” I repeat stupidly, shaking my head to clear it.

“A cat.” Wren looks flustered, but only for a moment, before regaining composure. She lowers her hand. “I have a cat, back home. He was just a kitten when I found him, in the middle of a rainstorm one night, so I nursed him back to health. He was my companion for years. Your gift reminded me of him.”

My heart goes out to her. I miss little Bao constantly with a deep ache; I know what it’s like, to have left behind a family member who couldn’t even understand where you were going, or why. “What’s his name?” I ask.

Wren rolls her eyes. “Kantoi.”

I laugh. _Kantoi,_ what we say when someone is caught doing mischief. “Is he a very naughty cat?”

“Oh, absolutely terrible. He used to get into the inkwell and leave pawprints all over my father’s important documents. Kantoi also loves knocking things over; I can’t—I couldn’t—have anything fragile in my room because of him.” Wren falters a little, and I can tell she is shaken, by the remembering of a life that is no longer hers.

I want to reach out and touch her, smooth the lines from her forehead. I want to pour her warm tea and sit with her for as many hours as it takes to soothe her heart. I want to ask her if we can be friends, at least, even though she seems determined to have ties to nothing and no one in this place.

But to do so would betray my own heart even further. So I flatten my palms against the sides of my thighs and say, simply, “Perhaps you can write to your father and ask him to bring Kantoi to visit you, the next time he comes to court.”

Wren knows, as I do, that the chances of this are slim. But the expression on her face gentles a fraction, and she repeats, “Perhaps.” Then her lips curve upward again in a faint smile, the gloss on them smudged now, and once again I resist the urge to reach out and wipe it away with my thumb.

“Good night, Lei,” she says, and it’s the first time I can recall her saying my name. Wren brushes past me as she disappears down the hall to her room, and as she does I catch the scent of the ocean, so familiar to me by now—salty-sweet and clean.

\--

My dancing lessons with Wren improve over time, but not by much. I continue to insist that she has a natural aptitude for dance that I do not possess, while she continues to insist that dance, like any skill, can be learned with enough practice.

“Do you think the acrobats in the circus were born knowing how to tumble?” Wren says on one of our afternoons together, rapping my wrist with her closed fan. But it’s a playful reprimand—I can tell by the glint in her dark eyes.

“No, but not everyone can be an acrobat,” I counter, scowling at her and rubbing my wrist. “And maybe acrobats aren’t born knowing their art, but some people _are_ born with the fear of heights.”

Wren shakes her head in amusement. “You’re not afraid.” Then she adds, in a tone so certain it surprises me, “You don’t strike me as being afraid of anything.”

I stare. “What are you talking about? I’m—I’m—” _I am afraid of so much._

Wren lifts a hand. “Let me amend. It’s true that we are all afraid of something. But you don’t allow that fear to rob you of reason or action. You don’t let it turn you subservient—or worse, cruel.” She pauses. “It is…an admirable quality.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I find it hard to believe, that I am as brave and virtuous as Wren says I am. If anyone around here is brave, I think, it is Wren—Wren, who never trembles or shrinks back or cries, Wren who walks into a demon’s den with her head held high.

Besides, how can she think she knows anything about my courage? From watching me trip over my own feet during dance practice? It seems highly unlikely.

I open my mouth to ask her—something, I don’t know what—but then Wren assumes the starting pose of the fan dance as if our conversation didn’t happen. “Again,” she commands. “Watch me.” Then she squints. “And watch me _closely._ I can tell when you’re not paying attention, you know.”

I feel myself flush. If my attention wanders when I watch her, it is only because I am wondering what it would be like to catch her free hand in mine when she extends it. To let my fingertips alight on her jaw, to slowly turn her face so my eyes can meet hers—

I blink and shake my head to clear it. _Pay attention, idiot,_ I tell myself, digging my nails into my palms and resting them on my thighs. _You have no business thinking such things._

Wren stamps her foot twice, and then slowly, allows her movements to flow into the steps of the dance. I observe the turn of her heel, the snap of her wrist, the dip of her shoulder. I try to file it all down to something clinical in my head; to remind myself I am merely a student observing an instructor.

Nothing more than that.

When Wren is finished with her demonstration, she makes me stand next to her and go through the entire dance again. Then again without her, twice, but still she is not satisfied. “You’re thinking too much,” she tells me.

“How can I _not_ think?” I retort, frustrated. “It takes all my mental energy to remember to move my hand in one direction while I move my foot in another. I’m just trying to copy everything you showed me.”

Wren frowns. “Don’t try to copy everything, Lei. The movements you can learn from me, but the _emotion_ in the dance has to come from you.” She presses her fingertips against the center of my chest, and it’s all I can do not to jump, as the touch sparks a new heat in me that I wasn’t prepared for. “This dance is meant to convey both desire and the knowing that you yourself are desired—but only in glimpses, for the audience to see as if through a veil. _You_ control when to lift the veil, but in order to do so, you must first be secure in your hold on what is concealed behind it.” Her gaze is intent on me.

My face is definitely burning now. I wonder if Wren can feel the frantic beat of my heart. “You mean my…nu core.”

Rolling her eyes, Wren says, “You don’t have to think of it the way Madam Himura does, Lei. Think of…a time someone you love called you beautiful. Not necessarily a lover. A family member, or a friend you trust. Take that memory into the center of yourself, and as you dance…” She moves her hand from my chest to her own. “Let it be the brightest thing burning there.”

Growing up, Baba always called me many kind things. He always said I was brilliant, funny, hardworking—even beautiful.

I do not want to think of Baba now. “Have you ever thought I looked beautiful?” I ask, before I can stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. Then I realize what I have said, and I am mortified.

But Wren only looks taken aback for a second, before blinking and replying matter-of-factly, “Yes.”

“You—you have?” I don’t know what I expected—for her to laugh at me, most likely, or to frown and tell me not to be so foolish. Certainly not this. “When?”

Wren sighs. “The Unveiling Ceremony. The night we were first presented to the King.”

“You mean the night I fell on my face in front of the entire court?” I ask incredulously.

“Not then. After.” Wren shifts her stance slightly. She doesn’t meet my eyes, now. “We got back to the house, and I happened to pass by your room as Lill was undoing your hair. She was telling you a funny story, I suppose to put you at ease, and then finally you laughed. In that moment, I suppose I thought—you looked like yourself again. Happy.” Wren shrugs, her tone become more brisk, as if she wants to breeze past something else she cannot say.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to see what Wren saw in me that day. What she sees in me now. Squaring my shoulders, I lift my fan. “I’m ready to try again.”

Nodding, Wren stands back with her arms folded, and I begin.

As I dance, I imagine the Demon King and the whole court are watching me, with their ravenous eyes. I draw them in with my movements; I lower my eyelids alluringly, slowly open up the angles of my body for brief moments before concealing them again, let the hem of my skirt drop and rustle deliberately against the floor to make heard the swish of silk. And all the while, I think to my imaginary audience, _You may catch glimpses of my warmth, but you will never know the sound of my laughter. There is a fire inside me you can never touch._

Wren looks me over from head to toe, watching my every step and turn and flourish, until I am standing in the finishing pose and breathing hard. “Better,” she says finally, and I feel a warm glow of pride. Even when she is correcting me, Wren almost never outright snaps at me anymore. And as for me, I realize that I have become much more comfortable around her. I don’t know if she thinks the same, but to me it seems like we have become friends.

After agreeing that I deserve a break, Wren calls for glasses of cool teh tarik, and we sit on the floor facing each other as we drink. “Did you never have to dance?” Wren asks. “At festivals back home?”

I shrug, drawing my sleeve across my damp brow and the back of my neck. “I did if everyone else was dancing, but I never performed for a crowd like some of the other girls did. I was always too busy helping Baba serve drinks, and, well—” I gesture to myself. “It’s not like anyone was very eager to have me join their dance group anyway.”

A mischievous light appears in Wren’s eyes. “And as a child? Surely you learned all the classics…like _Bangau, Oh Bangau?”_

I stifle a laugh, because I know what she’s trying to get me to do. “We must not have learned that one in my tiny backwater village,” I joke. “How does it go again?”

Wren makes a face at me, but she sings the first line anyway. _“Stork, oh, stork, why are you so skinny?”_

I do burst out laughing then. “What was _that?”_

Wren scowls. “What do you mean? It’s _Bangau, Oh Bangau!”_

“I know, but—“ I wipe my eyes, still giggling. “I think you must have forgotten the tune, Wren. I’ve never heard it sound quite like _that_ before.”

“Fine, so singing isn’t my strong suit.” Wren actually looks embarrassed, enough that I give in and start to sing it myself.

 _“Stork, oh, stork, why are you so skinny,”_ I sing, crooking my arms like wings and flapping them. I adopt a funny croaky voice for the stork and continue, _“How can I not be skinny; the fish don’t want to surface!”_

A wry smile crosses Wren’s face, and she sings the next line with me. _“Fish, oh, fish, why won’t you surface?”_ Then, to my utter surprise, Wren puts her hands up next to her face and wiggles them like fish fins. _“How can I surface?”_ she burbles, and I throw my head back and laugh again. _"Grass is so long, grass is so long…”_

We cycle through all the actions that accompany the childhood song, flailing our arms in the air like the grass waving in the wind, rubbing our stomachs like the buffalo with indigestion who can’t eat the long grass. This song has many verses, and by the end of it, we are laughing so hard we almost knock over our glasses of teh.

And for a moment, I can imagine that we are two girls who have grown up in the same village. We could have lived next door to one another, and our parents could have been friends. We could have walked to school together, climbed trees on the way home, shared secrets over red bean rice balls, slept over in each other’s rooms and stayed up talking long into the night.

Perhaps, on one of those nights—and if I were as brave as Wren believes me to be—I would have asked if I could kiss her. Perhaps she would have been curious enough, at least, to kiss me back.

I look at Wren now, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she doubles over with laughter, the late afternoon sun touching her cheeks and brushing her hair with gold—more at ease than I have ever seen her in all our days in Paper House. And I think fiercely that it does not matter, that I could not be her friend in that distant, impossible other life—just having her like this, here, with me, is more than enough.

\--

The truth is, the first time Wren kisses me, it feels like coming home.

I don’t remember sneaking back to my room from hers, or lying down on my sleeping mat. I don’t remember how I eventually fall asleep. It feels like I’m awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and barely seeing the shadows that move across it—reliving the gentle press of Wren’s lips, the feel of her waist under my hands; the way she slid her own hands into my hair, down my sides, up my back. I try to touch the same places she did, closing my eyes and pretending that it’s still her, but it’s not the same.

My body feels like it’s been woken up for the very first time; as though for years I’ve been slumbering beneath a snowdrift, and this is the first burst of spring sunlight I’ve ever known. And at the same time, it felt like second nature to me—Wren sealing my mouth with hers, her body aligned with mine. Like we just fit together; like we were meant to fit together all along. I realize I’m not scared of anything she might want to do. Of the secret, daring things stirring and taking shape in the back of my own mind.

I’d heard such longing spoken of, in giggles or hushed tones, among the other girls in my village—but somehow I always thought it was a fairytale they told themselves, a shared fantasy, to make the prospect of marriage more bearable. I’d never experienced anything close to it myself for anyone, not for any of the boys or even the girls I knew, no matter how good-looking they were. Never did I think desire could be felt this strongly; flutter in my throat like a trapped bird, thrum through my veins like a constant drumbeat. Never did I think I could want so much.

And I do. I want.

In the weeks that follow, as we go about our daily routines—the two of us unable to share more than a momentary glance or the brush of a hand—I feel as though I will burst out of my skin. I keep panicking, thinking that everything I am feeling, all the things I imagine when my mind wanders in a daydream, must be visible on my face. How can anyone look at me and not _see_ it? That I want Wren so much it _hurts,_ a strange writhing pain below my ribs, that threatens to claw its way up my throat and burst from my lips—that I am living in a constant state of wonder now, knowing that she wants me too?

And then finally, on a moonless night veiled thickly with sleepy silence, when the rest of the house does not stir, I am finally able to sneak out of my room and down the hall to Wren’s. I tap gently on her door, and instantly she slides it open just enough to see my face—instantly, as though she has been waiting by it for some time.

“Lei,” Wren whispers hoarsely. Then she takes my hand and pulls me through in one swift motion, closing the door behind me.

Around us, the room thrums with quiet—as though we are suspended by magic in a stolen moment, between two beats of a dragonfly’s wing. After so many nights apart, the two of us are alone. Relief floods through me, and I slump against Wren, finally, pressing my face into the warmth of her shoulder, my hands fisting in the back of her robe. In return, she wraps her strong arms around me tightly—holding me up, keeping me from falling.

When Wren draws back, it is to gaze into my eyes and touch her fingertips to my mouth, feather-light against my lips. She is luminous in the moonlight, her hair wild from a restless half-sleep, and the expression on her face is something I have never seen before. Unguarded. A little anxious, even. Impossibly soft.

Everything in me goes weak with want at the sight of her. I watch Wren’s eyes widen, the gleaming line of her throat, the way her chest rises and falls as she breathes. Then I take a deep breath, and gathering all my courage, I lean in and kiss her first.

At once, Wren’s mouth opens beneath mine, and I pull her into me, already wanting more. Like I could drink her in and drink her in—like I’ll never have enough. We kiss again and again for what feels like hours, Wren’s hands in my hair, my hands cupping her face and pressing her closer to me by the space between her shoulder blades. When I stop to bury my face in the warm hollow of her neck, I breathe in the ocean scent that lingers in her hair and let out a small, aching sigh.

One of Wren’s hands comes to rest at the base of my spine, her fingers moving almost imperceptibly, curling and uncurling for seemingly no reason other than to touch me. It’s a thinking silence, what settles around us now, and I realize I’ve always been attuned to these kinds of silences with Wren—that I can almost feel the thoughts circling in her head like wild birds in a storm. So I wait patiently, content for now to just breathe her in and revel in her warmth.

Finally, Wren pulls back to look at me again, and asks haltingly, “Do you…want to lie down?” Then she presses her lips together. “I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t—“

In response, I lock my arms around Wren’s waist and pull her down onto the mat with me. “You’re thinking too much,” I tease, and she snorts. But one of her arms slides underneath my ribs, encircling me so we are facing each other, her other hand reaching up to gently push the hair back from my cheek.

I smile and reach up to cover her hand with my own, my fingers tangling with hers. “Hello,” I whisper into the tiniest of spaces on the pillow between us.

“Hello.” The hesitation on Wren’s face softens into a smile.

I draw her hand down to my mouth, so I can press my lips to the center of her palm. When I do, Wren closes her eyes and breathes out, and the expression that briefly crosses her face almost looks like pain, giving way to relief.

My heart twists, and I reach out and rest my hand against her cheek too. After a while, I murmur, “Did you ever think—“

“This would happen?” A wrinkle appears on Wren’s brow as she opens her eyes. “I never thought…I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way. And then even when I realized you did, part of me thought we’d never have the chance. But I wanted it. So much, Lei, I—”

A rush of fondness overcomes me. I shift closer and press my forehead to hers—a little too enthusiastically, because it happens more like a headbutt, and I wince.

“Ow,” Wren says, frowning.

I snicker quietly. “Sorry.” Wren keeps scowling at me, which only makes me laugh more, and it’s a reminder, suddenly, that regardless of anything that might happen between us—Wren is still her, and I am still myself. “Me too,” I add, stroking a line over her cheekbone with my thumb. “I feel like…like I dreamed of this so much that—it’s hard to believe it’s real now.”

Wren nods. Then she bites her lip, and deliberately lays a hand on the sash at the waist of my robe. “Can I?” she asks. Her voice throaty and low, sending a dangerous, lovely shiver down my spine.

I swallow. I nod.

Carefully, Wren undoes the sash and moves the folds of my robe apart. The moonlit window is behind her, limning her edges in silver, and her eyes are dark and intent as she looks at me. I can feel her thinking again, like she’s taking in details—but it’s different from the way she watches me when I dance. Then, she is scrutinizing me for faults; now, she is looking at me like she wants to memorize me.

I look back at Wren, at the half-sleepy flutter of her eyelashes, her barely-parted lips. Then I hold my breath as, tenderly, she begins to trace her fingertips across my bare collarbone, toward the base of my throat, drawing a line down my sternum. Then sideways to brush just below my ribcage, and in a dizzying rush, I realize it’s a place I long to be touched, though I never knew it before. Her touch stokes something in me like _hunger,_ and a high, needy noise escapes from the back of my throat.

Wren grins suddenly. I freeze. “What?” I ask, feeling embarrassment flush hot through me.

“Nothing. I just enjoy learning what you like,” Wren says, sounding smug. “It’s incredibly satisfying for me.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you going to be this insufferable all the time?” Even as I say it, I feel a small thrill of excitement, thinking that we actually can have a next time.

“Oh, absolutely.” Wren smirks, and groaning, I slap her arm. “Shush,” she says, pressing a conciliatory kiss to my neck, then licking a warm, wet stripe up toward my jaw, coaxing a laugh from me. Then, carefully, Wren folds the overhanging panel of my robe back, over my shoulder and waist. The night air is cool as river water, and I shiver a little when it drifts over my bare skin.

I had thought that I would be shy, about Wren seeing my body like this, but to my faint surprise I feel completely at ease. Right now, I feel like there’s nothing of me that I wouldn’t let her see. I watch her face as Wren continues to move her hand—splaying her fingers underneath my ribs again, down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, down to the crease of my knee. And then, slowly, up the inside of my thigh.

I suck in my breath.

This time, Wren pauses. “Is this too much? Should I—“

“No.” I barely recognize my own voice when I say it. Tipping my head forward, I kiss her; lingering and deep, a reassurance. “I want you to. Please.”

Wren nods almost imperceptibly, and then takes a breath. Her hand moves down the outer curve of my thigh, then to the inner curve of my knee, roaming over the tender skin there. Then higher. The sound rises to my throat once more— my blood is pulsing hot everywhere, a fire burning low and urgent in my belly, between my legs, and I feel the coiling pressure of it build and build, the fire giving off sparks as it rises.

In a moment of clarity, when I feel my mind surface from the haze of being touched, I let my hand drift to Wren’s own sash, and lift my eyes to hers. Wordlessly, she nods. I untie it and move her robe aside, and for a moment I just look at her, the way she did me—her curves, her stretch marks, her dark skin smooth and lovely as silk.

Wren’s body is so beautiful, I can’t speak. There are scars she keeps well-hidden underneath her clothes, and I can’t begin to guess which ones are from her training, and which ones might just be from childhood scrapes. But I want to know every inch of her this way. I want to learn where she longs to be touched most, and to give her everything she desires. To let her know, without having to speak, just how much I feel for her.

As much as I want everything at once, I also know I want to take my time. Shifting closer still, I kiss the hollow of her throat, tracing the ridge of her collarbone with my lips. I let one hand trail down to skim the soft underside of her breasts, then reach around to run it down her bare back. Above me, Wren turns her face into the pillow and sighs, a sharp, keening breath like a sob, or the beginning of a song.

The hours blur together and the nighttime sounds from outside fade away, as we continue to explore one another—touching and kissing, whispering and gasping and stifling our laughter. The funny thing is, I’ve heard every metaphor there is from the newly married women and the older aunties back home—about flowers and petals and blooming—but now I know it’s nothing like that at all. This is as simple as my body and Wren’s hands, her body and mine.

I am not conscious of what I must look like now; my hair mussed, my lips parted as my breath quickens, the things I say and the sounds I make as I unravel. I am not thinking of anything else, of any of my worries or fears; not of our life outside these walls, or even beyond this sleeping mat. I have never belonged to the King—I was always meant to belong to Wren.

 _Wren._ I love the cleverness of her hands, the sureness of her mouth. I love the mischievous glint in her eyes, the way she tosses her head so her hair falls back over her shoulder, the way she moves against me like she’s dancing with me. The fact that I can see her lowering her defenses for me, that she’s falling and trusting I’m there to catch her. I love just being here with her, lying in her bed, having her so close and warm and soft and _real._ I think wildly that I could be executed at sunrise tomorrow and not care; that it wouldn’t matter because we’ve already had this, the greatest happiness I could ever imagine.

During a quiet, lazy stretch, I blurt this last part out to Wren, but she frowns. “Don’t say that,” she says. She has been facing me propped up on her side with one elbow, idly drawing waves on my bare shoulder with her fingers, but now she pushes herself upright. “I would like—I hope—“

Faltering, Wren looks away, towards the window. “I want to share a great many tomorrows with you, Lei,” she murmurs finally.

I consider this. Then I sit up too, sidling closer to Wren, and tilt my face up so I can kiss her again. “Tomorrow,” I murmur at the corner of her mouth, like a promise.

Our heads on the pillow, I curl closer, insinuating my leg between hers and resting my arm across the dip of her waist, while Wren nuzzles into my hair. We nestle into one another this way, the two of us enveloped in skeins of shadow and silver light as we drift off to sleep.

There are other words, too, that I am thinking to myself but that I cannot say aloud. Not yet. Still, I keep them close, wrapped around my heart—let the repeating melody of them in my mind, and the steadying rhythm of Wren’s breathing, carry me away.

\--

The courtyard in the early hours of the morning is completely still. It’s barely light, but we wanted to get here even before any of the maids awoke. Elbowing and shushing each other in our attempts not to laugh, we slip out of our robes and into one of the tubs. Around us, the trees rustle lightly in the breeze, and dragonflies dart across the grass in flashes of bright purple.

I take a moment to throw my head back, looking up at a pale sky swirled through with wisps of cloud and sunrise blue, and take deep gulps of the clean morning air. For all the terror that we live with, here—there are hours of peace and real joy, too. I know that now.

When we are quiet and seated in the water, facing each other, I ask Wren, “What was it like? Training as a Xia warrior?” As much as I want to believe I know who she truly is—as a person, as my friend, as my lover—I can’t forget the things I saw her do on the night of the shadow play performance. Things I never imagined it was possible for even the King’s most decorated warriors to do.

Wren exhales. “Do you really want to know?”

“If you don’t mind telling me.” I shift so I can stretch my legs a little; my thighs are pleasantly sore. “I was just thinking…it must be hard sometimes, keeping the secret. Not having anyone to talk to about it.”

For a second, I can see a flicker of weariness in Wren’s eyes, and I almost regret asking. But then she nods and says, “I told you that the Xia are trained in qi manipulation as well as martial arts. I was…very young when I began my studies. So young that for a time, I largely stopped speaking—because I was so focused on my physical training that I almost forgot how to do anything else. It wasn’t until my master noticed and pointed it out to my foster father that they made it a point to remind me to use my speech. Sometimes I still forgot. Sometimes when I was frustrated, all I remembered how to do was growl, or scream. Or sit in silence alone, while I tried to remember just one word, any word.”

“Wren,” I whisper, feeling my heart ache for the lonely, hurting child she used to be. But I asked for this. I wanted to know her story. The least I can do is listen.

Wren presses her lips together before continuing. “By the time I was twelve, I could wield sword, and dagger, and staff; I could fight with the kerambit and the liangcat, or with nothing but my two fists. I learned how to use my opponent’s weight against them, or render them unconscious simply by jabbing the right pressure points on their body. By the time I was fifteen, I knew how to choke someone to death by crushing the air from their windpipe. How to kill someone quietly and quickly, or how to drag it out for hours so they felt every second of agony.”

I suppress a shudder. The certainty with which she says it makes me wonder, what she did in training to know it. After all, I watched Wren kill a man myself. And what I’ve remembered most about that night wasn’t the look on the man’s face as he died—it was the look on Wren’s. Like there’s been a fury in her heart since the day she was born; like she could burn down the entire world if she wanted to.

Wren’s jaw is set as she watches my expressions. “Are you afraid of me, Lei?” Her voice trembles when she asks, just the slightest fraction—half in challenge, and half, I think, in fear of my answer.

Under the surface of the water, my hand finds hers, and I squeeze it tight for a minute before letting go. “No,” I say firmly. And I know, in my heart, that what I say is true. I am not afraid of her—but I am afraid _for_ her. Because I know, without having to ask, what she must be here to do.

But that is not for today. Today, this stolen morning, is for the two of us. “I’m not afraid of you, Wren,” I tell her. “I may be afraid of a lot of things, but I’m not afraid of you. Everything you’ve told me, that might be part of you—but that’s not all of who you are. Especially not to me.”

“Then who am I?” The line of Wren’s jaw is tight. “There’s so much you still don’t know—who can I possibly be to you?”

It’s at times like this that I wish I was better with words. I don’t have nearly enough, for Wren, but I give them to her anyway. “You’re brilliant,” I tell her. “You’re funny, and wise, and proud, and brave. When you smile, it’s like the sun rising over the mountains. You don’t talk about the things that are most important to you—not because you don’t care, but because you do. You’re the best dance teacher I’ve ever had. Maybe not the most patient, but the best.”

The beginnings of a smile. Wren looks down.

“And you’re someone I—care about very much.” I make small circles under the bath water with my hands, creating ripples. “And I know I can’t do much, and I know I can’t carry your burdens for you. But if I can make them lighter somehow, or if I can just be with you while you have to carry them, then—let me.”

Wren lets out her breath, a little like a sigh. “You think too highly of me.” But then she meets my eyes, and she doesn't look quite so weary anymore, and there’s that smallest of smiles that I cherish so deeply. “Thank you,” she says. “I mean it.”

Then Wren ducks underwater, perhaps to break the awkward silence more than anything else. When she comes back up, water is streaming from her hair, and she gasps a little and shakes it out, her wet skin glistening. I glance away briefly so I can catch my breath. I wonder if it will ever stop feeling like this, looking at her.

Wren is blinking at me now. “What?”

“Nothing.” To hide my embarrassment, I splash her hard. She lets out a tiny yelp of surprise, then splashes me back.

After a brief tussle during which we both get water up our noses, Wren folds her arms and rests them on the side of the tub, propping her chin on top of them and gazing out into the courtyard. Past the trees and the wall—for a moment, I think, past the borders of Han itself. “What’s the first thing you want to do? When our time here is done?” she asks.

I blink at her. “What?”

“When I’m done being a Paper Girl, I think the first thing I want to do is travel to the Mersing Archipelago,” Wren muses aloud. She lets one of her hands fall over the rim of the tub to trail languidly in the grass. “I hear the beaches there are incredible. White sand and bright blue water and coral reefs… Do you know what a dugong is, Lei? They’re giant gentle creatures that live in the ocean and eat sea grass—the fishermen say they’re quite shy, but if we’re lucky and we don’t make any loud noises to spook them, we just might be able to spot them from a boat.”

My breath catches in my chest. “We?” I repeat.

Wren huffs at herself. “I suppose I should have asked first.” She pauses. “…Would you? Like to come travel with me someday?”

It’s not like Wren to talk like this, so I am momentarily confused before I understand. Wren wants to have hope. Daring to harbor dreams for our future, in spite of our present, is one form of rebellion.

Loving Wren is another. “Yes,” I say. “I would.”

Wren tilts her head at me, her dark eyes sparkling. “Where would you want to go?”

“Well, home, first, to see Baba and Tien. Our village isn’t much, but—“ I smile shyly at her. “We’d make you the finest dinner we could, to welcome you. Then maybe, I was thinking…we could go to the canola flower fields, on one of the islands to the east. I’ve always wanted to see them.”

“Gods, me too. We’d have to go in spring, while it’s the right time for them. We could rent a boat, or—aiyah!” Wren’s hands have been rinsing the soap from her hair, but now she breaks off, frowning. “My hair always gets so tangled,” she mutters, yanking at it impatiently. “Sometimes I wish I could chop it all off.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You could, if you want to. But either way, I think it's lovely.” I reach out and start to run my fingers through Wren's hair from the bottom, patiently combing out the knots one by one. Parting her hair in two, I idly twine the wavy strands between my fingers and smooth them down her back. And for a second I allow myself to imagine, one day, sitting in a field with Wren in springtime, and weaving yellow canola flowers into her hair.

Then, impulsively, I lean forward and press my lips to the base of her neck. I feel Wren’s shoulders rise as she laughs silently, so I kiss her shoulders too, until she turns around and enfolds me tightly in her arms, and the water sloshes out of the tub and runs in rivulets through the grass.

The sun is almost fully risen now, and we know the others will wake soon. So Wren and I step out of the tub and dry each other, not speaking as we towel each other’s hair and gently pat the dampness from each other’s cheeks. Then we dress, in the light of the new day, and as we cross the courtyard and go back into the house, our hands do not touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Wren has already turned eighteen in the first book, but I gave her an extra birthday to suit my purposes. I also played timey-wimey a little between the first time they kiss and the first time Lei goes to Wren’s room, since there are montagey bits in the book where time sort of blurs together anyway.
> 
> I also can’t remember if there were ever any mentioned specifics of Wren’s Xia training, but I borrowed the bit where Wren says she stopped talking as a child because so much of her energy went into her physical training from Cassandra Cain’s backstory.
> 
> I am rusty, but this was fun. (or as fun as writing an M-rated fic from FIRST PERSON POV can possibly be, dear lord) If you made it, thanks for reading! aaaaaaaa


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